


Every Time We Touch

by Andrl



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Drinking, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morning Wood, Or is it platonic...? ;), POV Alternating, Platonic Cuddling, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, rinch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andrl/pseuds/Andrl
Summary: John and Harold go and have a "beer" after the events of Masquerade. Harold needs to be touched (very, very loosely inspired by the end of Moonlight)





	

“Two bourbons, on the rocks–”

“–top shelf.”

John’s face broke into a smile.

“You heard the man. He’s buying,” he said, flashing his perfect teeth at the bartender, who did her best to suppress her schoolgirl reaction. Reese’s irresistible charm was just another one of the myriad skills he must have picked up from the CIA, thought Harold.

He had made it as far as the bar, flanked by Reese and Bear. John didn’t know this, but Harold owned the apartment building next to the library and he had been sleeping there since everything that had happened with Root, the whole fiasco that now left him afraid to walk the streets of his own town. He had never intended for John to come rescue him and he had been prepared for the worst, and yet, now that it was all over, and he shouldn’t even need it, his bravery was failing him.

The bar was the farthest he had yet ventured from the library, and he had to admit to himself that it wasn’t the guard dog on a leash that had made that possible, but the one who was sitting opposite him now, his colleague – and only friend.

Reese was swirling his whiskey around his glass and respectfully avoiding staring at Finch with concern in his eyes, concern that Finch could feel radiating off of him. He appreciated the casual way in which John was respecting his wishes. Maybe one day he would tell him of his ordeal, but he was glad to just sit with Reese for now.

As they each sipped at the very expensive whiskey Finch had just bought them, he mused that the nature of their relationship as employer and employee had probably changed for good. He couldn’t deny the warm feeling spreading through his insides, just knowing that this kind, thoughtful and noble man was really his friend. Actually, on second thought, it was probably just the whiskey.

-

John didn’t want to overwhelm Harold with an interrogation, despite how badly he wanted to know everything that Root had put him through. If Harold ever did open up, he would add every little crime up in his head and he wouldn’t forget a single detail if he ever saw her again.

“You’re usually more talkative, Mr. Reese,” he heard from across the table. He glanced at Finch, whose eyes remained buried in his glass.

“So are you,” he countered. Quickly, he added, “Sorry, Finch. I just…don’t know what to talk about.”

“I see,” said Finch, still captivated by the precious brown liquid. “You want me to talk about…my experience with Root.”

“No!” John insisted. “I mean…I don’t want you to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with. I know you’re a very private person.”

“It’s not a matter of my privacy, Mr. Reese.” Finch finally met John’s eyes. “I just…don’t want to think about it right now. Let’s just drink, please.” Again, he averted his gaze.

“I,” spluttered John, “I didn’t ask you to talk about it...” he trailed off, helplessly.

Finch took a deep breath and looked at John.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mr. Reese. I guess I’m just a bit…rattled, still. I owe you my life. There is no doubt about that. I didn’t mean to take out my frustration on you.”

“It’s okay, Harold,” John smiled at him.

-

This time Finch was the beneficiary of Reese’s perfect smile. The abrupt rush of heat in his chest made him marvel at the strength of his expensive glass of whiskey.

“Thank you, John.”

Harold didn’t think it possible but John’s smile broadened.

“Another round?” he asked.

“Please.”

While John was at the bar, Harold fiddled with the bandage on his not-quite-healed hand. He looked out the window to check on Bear, who was tied up outside, and currently lying forlornly on the sidewalk. He thought about how much courage the enormous dog had instilled in him earlier, before he ultimately went running back to the safety of the library. Maybe he could think of a way for Bear to join them inside next time they went for a drink.

Next time. The thought crossed his mind with such ease that he didn’t even notice.

-

John could practically hear the cogs turning in Finch’s head as he returned to their table. When John placed the glass in front of his boss, Harold jumped.

“Sorry,” John said, gently.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.”

They started on their second round in silence, which was the way Harold seemed to prefer it tonight. John didn’t mind. He had been so consumed with worry recently that it was a relief to just sit, knowing that Finch was nearby, and safe.

Finch’s eyes looked glazed over as he drank. He appeared to John to be miles away. John’s gaze was drawn by Finch’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a gulp of whiskey. He became distracted studying Finch’s sideburns, as if he were seeing them for the first time. Combined with his spiky hair and impeccable three-piece-suit, Finch looked unlike anyone else in the world. He was unique, and when John thought about how Root tried to take him away, he boiled with anger, though it never showed on his face.

“Mr. Reese?”

Finch’s voice was so small, it sounded like it was coming from far away.

John snapped back to the present.

“Yes, Finch?”

“Would it be alright…if we left now? I…I think Bear will be getting cold.”

It wasn’t a cold night, but John didn’t argue.

“Have you eaten?” he asked Finch.

“Um, not recently. Why do you ask?”

-

Finch sat in Reese’s kitchen while the latter tended to a large pot on the stove. He absent-mindedly scratched behind Bear’s ears. He had felt awkward at first, like he was intruding on Reese’s private space. But the surprisingly good Scotch Reese had poured for him was helping with that.

When John placed a bowl of spaghetti in front of him, he felt guilty for his sudden and complete lack of appetite. Taking an initial small bite, he then made a show of stirring the spaghetti into the delicious Italian sauce. After a minute, he took another bite.

“It’s okay, Harold,” John’s voice intruded into his little bubble of thought.

“What?”

“You’re not hungry, are you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You could have just said so,” John laughed.

Harold gulped, but the whiskey had already knocked down any barriers to him sharing his private thoughts.

“I…I didn’t want to be alone.”

“I understand, Harold.”

John got up and cleared the table.

“You know,” he said from behind, as he stacked the dishwasher, “you can stay here tonight, if you want. I’m sure no one will notice if Bear spends just one night in the apartment.”

“Yes,” Harold said, too quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You never could,” John assured him with that brilliant smile, and Harold’s heart warmed for his friend.

-

Reese stripped the bed and changed the sheets in record time, ignoring Finch’s protests.

“I assure you, Mr. Reese, I can sleep on the couch.”

“You’re a guest in my house, Finch. You’re taking the bed.”

When he finished he turned back to Finch, who was standing, helplessly, watching him. He noticed Bear asleep on the couch he was planning to sleep on himself and sighed.

“Mr. Reese– ”

“Harold. Please let me take care of you.”

Harold stopped.

He had not meant to reveal so much of himself to Harold, but John couldn’t deny how much he wanted to look after the small man before him; couldn’t deny how much of a failure he had felt when Harold had been taken from him.

John took a step closer and placed his hand on Finch’s shoulder.

“I want to make up for not being there for my friend, please.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, John. You saved me, remember?”

“You should never have been in a position to need saving, Finch!”

He noticed Harold’s eyes dart to John’s hand, which was still on his shoulder. He interpreted the look as discomfort and quickly retracted his hand.

“Sorry.”

“No, no…it’s just,” Harold stammered. “I’m not used to being touched. No one has touched me in _such_ a long time. Not since…”

He looked at his feet, avoiding John’s gaze.

“Grace?”

“Yes.”

“There hasn’t been anyone else? A friend, or…?”

“Maintaining friendships and relationships isn’t exactly easy when you’re supposed to be dead,” Finch quipped.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, Finch was staring at him.

“I understand, Harold. Sometimes you can forget what it feels like, physical contact with another person. Especially if you’re a dead man, like we are.” He smiled. Harold continued to stare, his expression unreadable. John took a step towards him until there was only a foot between them.

“Do you miss it?”

“More than I realised, “ Harold replied.

“Me too.”

John looked at the floor between them. He slowly and carefully extended his hand, offering it to Harold. His heart skipped a beat as he wondered if this was a mistake, but it was too late to take it back.

Wordlessly, Harold mirrored John, extending his fingers, and John’s heart raced. They both avoided each other’s eyes, fixating on their two hands until they touched. A bolt of electricity shot through Reese at the touch. It had been such a long time for him, too.

John held Harold’s hand in his own, clasping it firmly with all the warmth he could muster. They slowly raised their eyes at each other. In one smooth motion, John pulled Harold into an embrace. He didn’t care about the appropriate social mores any more. After all, it was just Harold and John in this apartment, in this moment. He held Harold’s small frame in his strong arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

-

Harold couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged someone like this, with his entire person laid bare and vulnerable, completely enveloped by this man. He felt like if he let go now, he would drown.

“Thank you, John.” His voice was muffled from his face being pressed into Reese’s shirt.

John pulled away from the hug first, and the loss of his embrace was like stepping out the door and straight into a blizzard.

Harold worried John was already regretting the intimate moment.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Is your back alright?”

“I’m not made of paper, Mr. Reese.”

“Right…well. Maybe we should go to bed.”

“Good idea.”

Harold limped past John towards the bed without glancing back, although he could feel John’s eyes on him. He removed his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat when he was overcome by momentary daring.

“Are you coming?” He turned towards John.

“What?” John knitted his brow in confusion.

“I don’t mind sharing. And it looks like your couch is already taken.”

They both looked at Bear who was spread out on the large sofa, upside down, tongue hanging out.

John shrugged and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Harold turned away from John. Suddenly he felt like he was invading John’s privacy and he regretted every decision he had made that night. Why was he here? Why did he drink that last glass of whiskey? Why did he stay? Why did he just suggest John share his bed with him? He shivered at the thought.

-

Once he’d finished undressing, Harold climbed under the covers before John could offer any assistance, although, he didn’t appear to need any. John also stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, and after switching off all the lights and triple-checking the locks on the door, he returned to find Harold facing away from him, wrapped up in the bed sheets.

If anyone asked him in the future, he wouldn’t have been able to explain what came over him next. It was a boldness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He climbed into the large bed and scooted over towards the small figure under the blankets. He lay on his side behind him, his nose so close that it brushed Harold’s hair. Then, in the culmination of all his boldness, he snaked his arm under the covers and over Harold.

Harold said nothing, and John could feel his heart beating in his ears. Then he felt the other man’s hand close around his own, holding it comfortably. Relief and contentment swept over him and he nuzzled Finch’s hair. He was rewarded with a thumb circling, lazily, over his hand. It was interlocked in that position that they both drifted off to sleep.

-

The first thing Harold felt when he woke up was comfortable.

Then he remembered this wasn’t his bed. And there was another man in it.

He rolled over slowly, mindful of his injury as always. There was Reese, his employee and only friend, lying there on his back, apparently still sleeping. God, why had he gone and imposed on him last night? Why had he overstepped so far? But then he remembered what John had done, how he had fallen asleep in his arms, how that had been John’s choice. Harold supposed that John pitied him for his pathetic fears. He cringed when he remembered how needy and helpless he had been last night.

The next thing that caught his eye he didn’t even have time to process, as John had begun to stir. And it must have been the CIA agent in him because he was wide awake and alert almost instantly. But that wasn’t the only thing about him that was alert. Having just retrieved his glasses, Finch could see the sheets forming a miniature tent around what was obviously a morning erection.

Harold knew he shouldn’t be shy. These things happened to men sometimes, even men in their forties. He knew that. He’d experienced it himself. But right now, he just wished he had the handbook on what to do when you wake up in the same bed next to your best friend and he’s got a massive hard on.

John caught Harold staring, slack-jawed, and seemed to realise pretty quickly what it was that he was staring at.

There was an awkward silence between them as their eyes met, neither man knowing what to do or say.

John broke eye contact first and rolled away from Harold, clearing his throat. He got out of the bed and shuffled off to the bathroom. Harold remained there, too confused to comprehend anything.

Before he could collect his whirlwind of thoughts, his phone buzzed next to him.

Another number.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this until I'd finished it. But I figured if I posted this chapter now then I might be more motivated to write the rest :P


End file.
